Have some Madeira, m’dear!
                                                          - Edwardian ballad

This old, ribald pub song, revived mid 20th Century, is likely responsible for the mispronunciation of the name of that scenic Portuguese island. The natives know it as Ma-day-ra, not Ma-dee-ra, but of course it had to rhyme with ‘dear’ for the sake of the song. Is this artistic license?

I know all this because I just returned from this small island of the windswept Atlantic. I am uncertain why I am writing about it to be honest. Travel writing was something I used to do. But I guess I’m hoping that by writing about it, I will uncover a truth or at least some wisdom gleaned from this recent journey. I have long heard that ‘travel is broadening’. Let’s see what we can unpack here besides a travel-weary bag.

My travel mate and I had visited the Azores last winter and fell in love with the tiny Portuguese archipelago, so we decided to revisit the country this year, to the mainland for the first half and then on to Madeira.

The first five or six days we roamed the Algarve, that southern part of the country bordering the Mediterranean. It comprises some of the world’s most stunning beaches and dunes, separated by staunch, magnificent headlands. Turquoise sea, brown sugar sand, and picture perfect weather.

And then . . . a little drum roll here might be appropriate . . . we flew to Madeira, excited at the prospect of climbing mountain trails and walking the levadas, the island’s irrigation system (much like man-made rivers), built on the mountain sides.

Madeira, however, was not in a welcoming mood. The 90 minute flight from Lisbon was making its descent, wheels down, engines slowed, when suddenly the entire aircraft began to flutter and wobble. We seemed to be in a twilight zone. Passengers screamed. I called on my angels. And I guess they heard, because next thing I knew the captain was accelerating and pulling out and up. We sat tight waiting for the explanation that never came, as the craft turned and headed back to Lisbon.

Next day we try it again and this time land safely. We pick up the rental car (no automatic gearshifts on perpendicular Madeira) and head up. There are only two directions on this island we learn: up and down. We track down our small, charming hotel nestled on a ledge in Sao Vicente, never dreaming that we would spend the next four days locked in the teeth of a monsoon.

Dire warnings regarding walkabouts, or drive-abouts are issued next morning. We are essentially prisoners of our ‘charming’ hotel. The first day we busy our selves with the gym/sauna/pool, etc. Not why we came to Madeira, but nevertheless pleasant. Next day we’re getting antsy. We think – how bad can it be? We venture out, climbing behind the wheel, this time pointing the car downward.

What were we thinking?!

With winds gusting up to 100 mph and driving rain, the rocks come crumbling, tumbling down the mountainsides and drop from the overhang. For the second time I call on my angels and we make it back up the mountain unscathed but shaken.

On the last day in Sao Vicente the storm takes a break and we walk down to the village, but that night it’s back again with a raging ocean that we learn has actually swept some poor soul into the sea.

Next morning we leave for the airport, naïve as ever, expecting to fly back to Lisbon for a couple of days before heading home. Not so fast, we learn. All flights in and out are cancelled. For 12 hours we hang out in the airport along with thousands of other travellers. It is not without hope. The airline schedules the flight. We check bags. Go through security. Wait at boarding gate. Flight is cancelled. Collect bags. Start over. Three times!

We are nearing exhaustion and are finally ensconced in another hotel overnight. The new flight we are assigned leaves at 4pm next day. But by this time we have missed our previously scheduled transatlantic flight from Lisbon to Toronto. And the airline is unmovable in its stand on the unrefundable flight. Without 24 hours notice, they insist, we lose the money. (Never mind that we didn’t know 24 hours ahead.)

The 4pm flight is ‘delayed’ again, and I begin to feel like I’m living in the Groundhog Day film. But then (pounding heart) we begin boarding. And, yes! We’re airborne!

Meanwhile I’ve been hit with a nasty bug. By the time we arrive in Lisbon, I can barely put one foot ahead of the other. The lovely day that I was anticipating in Old Lisbon next day is spent in bed with fever. I wonder if I will ever make it on board a transatlantic flight next day. The new flight that my valiant travel buddy has booked goes only as far as Montreal. Then it’s a four-hour layover, before boarding for Toronto, making a 15-hour travel day.

I summon my angels one last time. Help me get on board that airplane! And by some miracle they do. But by arrival time in Toronto we are both sick and have been convalescing ever since.


So what, pray tell, is the wisdom here?

All of our Earth school experiences are meant to be lessons in living and knowing our self. Is there some glaring point here that I am missing?

What was the life lesson for me? Just to count my blessings and be grateful to be back alive? There is that. But I was hoping for some pithy insight that would burst into neon for me.

What I do know is that we met some fine folk in those airports and hotels, travellers from many countries, warm, friendly and helpful. Perhaps this is the wisdom I’m to take away. Only the outer crust is different. On the inside we’re soft and warm, and we all smile in the same language. I believe that it is in that smile that we experience oneness.

Oh . . . and ironically, the second line of the song (rhyming dutifully with ‘dear’):

                                 You know you have nothing to fear.